


Care

by Fyre



Category: Miss Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Protective Siblings, Sibling Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2019-06-21 15:39:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15561009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: Sometimes even a consulting detective needs her big brother.





	Care

**Author's Note:**

> I love Kento and Sherlock's dynamic. That is all.
> 
> (Spoilers for the full season)

“I am here to see her.”

“I’m sorry, sir. That isn’t possible.”

Kento stared at the officer in front of him until the man moved from foot to foot and lowered his gaze. “I think you misunderstand me, sergeant.” He leaned closer. “I _am_ going in to see her. She has committed no crime and you have no jurisdiction over her.”

“Sir, my commander–”

Kento raised his eyebrows. “Your commander. The man who ordered a manhunt on an innocent woman?” It was true Sherlock had acted rashly, but any fool could see why. “Do you really want to cause more distress to the woman who saved Tokyo?”

The man muttered into his tie, but he stepped aside. Kento opened the door before the officer remembered his duty was meant to come first and stepped quickly into the room.

The blinds were half-open, lines of light striping the floor. It almost looked like an old-fashioned cell. Sherlock was standing by the window. Standing upright. Whole. 

It took all his strength to keep to his feet, his heart thundering in his chest. Reimon had told him about her plan. Foolish and reckless and desperate and almost fatal. A metre in either direction and she would have been blood and bone on the road below.

“Sherlock.”

She didn’t turn, but he could see the movement of the blinds in front of her. Cloth, he noticed. He moved closer until he could see her drawing her fingers down then back up the edge of one of the panels. It had a tear on the edge and she was frowning every time her thumb brushed it.

“Wato is safe.” She needed to know that above all else.

For a moment, her hand was still, then it started moving again. 

He took a step closer, then curled his hand over her shoulder. She flinched, recoiling, hands up, and it was worse than a blow.

“Not broken,” she said abruptly. “Deep bruising and some stitches. The damage should heal in a few days.” She turned and met his eyes. “The other shoulder is fine.”

The air left him in a rush and he reached out to clasp her other shoulder at once. “You scared me.”

She dipped her chin. “I had to stop her.”

“I know.” He squeezed her shoulder again, gently. “Any other injuries?”

She caught the sleeve of her robe between her fingertips and he cursed his stupidity under his breath. Of course she needed her own clothes. He should have fetched some. The hospital robes were too coarse. Her fingertips were white against the cloth as she pulled it back from her forearm.

From her wrist to her elbow, she was covered in dark bruises. “All of my left side looks like this,” she said, turning her arm for him to see. “I hit the railing.”

Less than a metre, then. He had to force himself to take a slow breath. In, hold, exhale.

“You won’t do anything like this again.” She didn’t answer. He watched the way she was staring at the bruises. Gently, he reached out and drew her sleeve back down. “Have you eaten?”

The face she made gave him his answer.

“You need to eat.”

“Not in here.”

He nodded. “I’ll order in.” He took her right elbow, guiding her back towards the bed. “You should rest. Have you slept?”

She shook her head. “Can’t.”

“Sherlock…”

She brushed his hand away and climbed up to sit on the bed, wincing. Her frown returned as she pressed her hands against the mattress.

Kento folded his hands tightly over one another, watching her.

She would never be able to sleep there, but there was no question that she could go home. The world had to believe she – and the Doctor – were dead. Until the Dock was found, Sherlock had to remain a ghost.

Fortunate, then, that they had… allies in high places. Even if that ally had a bruise on his face in the shape of Kento’s fist, he owed his business, his reputation and his position to an action that Sherlock should never have been forced to make. Whether he got to keep all of those things lay in Kento's hands now.

“Don’t let them take you anywhere else,” he said, turning and striding towards the door.

 

____________________________________________________________

 

   
The room smelled of wax, polish and sun-warmed wood. A window was open, but there was no breeze to stir the lace curtains that covered it or the heavier brocade ones that framed it.

Sherlock drew her fingertips along the fringe of one of the lamps. The silk was dulled gold and heavy. Edwardian. Original. The base had been touched up. The shade of blue wasn't quite right on one side. 

It was a richly-decorated room, a distracting prison. There were many things to examine. Almost, but never quite enough.

Her mind always rebelled against inaction. Problems and work were the solution, but those were at arm's length now.

It was impossible to look at trinkets and decorations for no purpose and expect her mind not to wander. There had to be a purpose for the examination and if there was no purpose, then there were other thoughts to fill the void.

She pulled her hand back from the lamp, rubbing her palm with her left thumb.

Action and reaction. Cause and effect. How to quantify action over inaction. To act was correct. To prevent chaos was morally right. A lesser offence to prevent a greater crime was logical. 

The gun had left no mark, but there was a bruise on her palm now.

To take a life was wrong.

Morally, ethically, spiritually, it was one thing that civilised society agreed on.

To take a life to save millions was... right? No. It could never be right, but it could be correct. Necessary. 

Logical.

She pressed her lips together, her thumb digging into her palm.

It seemed so simple in that moment. She saw Wato – and others. There were too many others. More than eighteen. More than the number of vaccines available. She saw the infected carrier of the disease. Patient zero in an epidemic the moment he made contact with any of them. Simple. Terminate the illness.

Simple.

Logical.

Wato screamed when he - a man; Moriya Toru; photographer; boyfriend; lover; dead - fell.

A man who bled.

Sherlock’s thumbnail pressed into her palm too hard and she hissed, pulling her left hand back. A crescent of red on her palm. Living blood. Barely enough to smear against her skin. Not like him, red on his lips and at his eyes and from his chest.

“Sherlock.” A touch and her name made her jolt like a fearful cat.

Kento. Back again. He had not been there before. His hand was warm on her shoulder. The right. He always remembered where and when she could not be touched.

“You’re here.”

He nodded slightly. “One of my colleagues has found themselves in some trouble.”

Blood and screaming could be put aside.

“Trouble?” She sat up straighter. “What kind?”

He offered her a file. “You tell me.”

The file was thick with papers: faxes and even telegrams. Old trouble, then, but there were newer, uncreased pages at the back. Smoother paper. High-quality. Some typed, some printed. The same family name recurring, but different forenames. Adoption certificates. A police report. Photographs of a small child – baby, perhaps. Difficult to assess.

“The baby?” she asked, leafing through the pages.

“My colleague in infancy.” Kento was on the far side of the room. She glanced over at him. He was down to his shirtsleeves which made her raise her eyebrows.

“How long?” Twenty minutes was standard. A compact, succinct period.

He unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves. “I have some time.”

Sherlock stared at him in confusion. “Why?”

He raised his eyebrows in turn. “Because my sister just died.”

She almost laughed. “So I’m your vacation?”

He almost smiled. “Something like that. I would prefer Okinawa, but this will have to do.” He came back across the floor, a box in his hand. She didn’t need to see the label to know what it was and where it came from. He set it down on the table in front of her. “I can’t eat them all myself.”

She gazed at the box, then back at his face. There were lines around his eyes and silver in his hair where there had been none before. “You didn’t bring any tea?”

He bowed deeply. “Forgive me, big boss. I will fetch your tea now.”

She looked around for a cushion to throw at him, but the couch was bare. He must have guessed her intention because he was smirking when he straightened up from the bow. She made a face at him, then plucked the lid from the box and snatched his favourite of the sweets inside and shoved it into her mouth.

“Sherlock!”

She waved him away. “Tea!”

He was smiling as he turned away.

 

_________________________________________________

 

The summer rain was falling heavily outside. 

Kento always liked the rain and the freshness of the world that came after. He sat by the window, watching the trees bend under the weight of the downpour, enjoying the stillness and quiet it while it lasted.

Sherlock hadn't noticed. 

She was sitting cross-legged on the rich Persian rug on the polished wooden floor, her robe a tangle around her. There were papers spread in all directions, the second of the small bundle of private requests for assistance that he'd kept set aside in case of an emergency such as this. 

It always helped her to have something to do. 

There was plenty to stimulate her in the house. Kirishima's tastes ran to historical western design. He had an expensive eye for beautiful antiques which made up for the fact that nothing in the room really matched except for the fact that it was old and Western. 

A mid-Victorian vase stood on a delicate Georgian table that looked too fragile and ornate for it. Tapestries hung adjacent to oil paintings. There was even a virginal in the corner and judging by the lid that had been firmly shut after their arrival, Sherlock was unimpressed by the lack of tuning. 

Little things like that would distract and amuse her, assessing their origins and placements, but sometimes, she needed more than that.

Her mind was like a well-wound clock and if it wasn't kept lubricated with information and mysteries and challenges, he could remember all too well what could happen. With the events of the past three days, the last thing he wanted was to see her turn inwards again, focussing on the thoughts he knew she would never talk about.

"Takeda."

He turned at her voice. "Hm?"

Sherlock held up a page. There's an anomaly in the financials on Takeda's accounts."

"We've had financial experts pick those accounts apart."

She shrugged. "They missed it. It was hidden in an arrangement of transactions with the Hong Kong branches of the bank. It looked like all the other transactions but the figures match..." She looked around at the organised chaos spread around her. "Ah!" She lifted up two more pages. "The total of the two sums on the business accounts match this figure." She grinned up at him. "He has another account he's been bouncing the payments through, combining them into different totals before he dispatches them to his international holdings."

Kento rose from his seat and walked over, crouching down beside her. "Is it the only one?"

She gave him a look. "If there's one, there will be more. Someone as flashy and greedy as Takeda wouldn't be happy with just one pot of gold." She thrust one page against his chest. "Now I know what to look for, I'll be able to find the rest."

He almost sighed aloud in relief as he straightened back up. A few more hours of diversion at the very least. “Prove it.”

She waved him away as if he was an irritating cat and he chuckled.

By the time the rain stopped, almost two hours later, she had barely moved from her spot on the rug. She had two computers open in front of her and was still shuffling through the pages from time to time.

“Sherlock.” She didn’t reply, so he crouched down, putting his hand over the page she was reading. She looked up indignantly. “You need to eat.”

“Mm.” She swatted his hand away. “Soon.”

“At the end of that page,” he said, slipping his hand back over. “I won’t have you complaining to me that your stomach hurts because you didn’t eat again.” She pulled down her eyelid and put out her tongue, which made him snort. “Such a polite child.”

Unsurprisingly, as soon as she had the food in front of her, she seemed to temporarily forget about work. There was a colourful array of hot and cold food from the kitchen and her chopsticks darted across the different platters.

Kento stirred his own soba through his broth. 

"Why haven't they brought charges yet?" Sherlock asked suddenly.

He raised his eyebrows, startled that she was even asking, and hastily slurped down his mouthful of noodles. "Now you ask?"

She nodded, gesturing with her sticks. "Kurata's suicide can be confirmed by security surveillance, but there were witnesses when I-" She broke off, curling her fingers around the sticks. "They saw what I did."

"There are circumstances to take into account," he said. "You know how the law works: cause and intent. Until they can put all the facts of the case in order, they can't be sure what charge to bring against you. Once they have the Dock, things will progress."

She nodded, frowning at the plate in front of her. She tapped the end of the sticks on the rim. "You should have let me talk to her."

Kento laid down his own sticks, his stomach turning at the thought of letting that woman anywhere near his sister again. "You think you could have got answers out of her?" He shook his head. "We have people who do that. You didn't need to have it on your conscience as well."

He'd tried to get into the room himself, but after his encounter with Kirishima, his superiors politely indicated that he might be too emotionally compromised to be impartial. Privately, he had to admit they were right. The doctor's thin neck would have ended up between his hands if he'd had his way.

She looked over at him, then picked out one of the smaller platters and shoved it towards him. "You need to eat. Your face is getting thin."

He almost smiled. "What was the phrase that Nanny used to say?"

She considered, then grinned suddenly and said in English. "Pot call kettle black."

He inclined his head and replied in English, "Thank you very much, Miss Pot." He pushed another bowl towards her.

She chuckled as she fished out a piece of sweet potato from it. "And you, Sir Kettle."

For several minutes, neither of them spoke as they ate.

"Brother?"

Kento raised his eyes from his dish. "Mm?"

Sherlock wasn't looking at him, but he could tell every part of her was focussed on him. "Thank you," she said so quietly he could barely hear it.

"For what?"

She prodded at a bowl of rice, then glanced up at him. "You stayed."

He sighed fondly. "Of course I did," he said. "Who would annoy me if I didn't have you around?"

For the first time in days, she laughed.

 

___________________________________________

 

Sherlock could hear something.

At first she wasn’t sure. She hadn’t slept much – not since the thump of the gun against her palm – and concentration was difficult. There had been nightmares again and midnight walks through the house, counting up and down to remember how to breathe.

A pounding. It took her a moment to recognise the sound of someone knocking.

She pushed back the covers on the couch and sat up, frowning as she saw the clock on the mantelpiece. It was barely seven. There was no reason for anyone to be knocking so urgently at the front door.

The door of the drawing room swung open. Kento was still in his pyjamas as well, his hair standing up like the bristles of a porcupine. “Stay here.”

She blinked foolishly after him as he hurried away, then grabbed her robe and pulled it on, rushing out into the hall. Someone had come, which meant it was important. It was something that could not be done in a telephone call, which meant it was serious. Not the Dock. That would take a call, nothing more. Not Irikawa’s execution. Kento would keep that as far away as he could.

Her heart felt like it was jumping.

Charges, then. At last. Finally. No more blade hanging over her throat. 

By the time she caught up with him – longer leg length gave him an advantage – the door was already open and Kento was talking in low, urgent tones. There was only one other person there, silhouetted in the frame. She slowed her pace. The breadth of the shoulders and the shape of his hair was familiar.

“Commissioner Takahashi.” Both men looked towards her. 

“Sherlock–” Kento took a step, but Takahashi held up a hand, pausing him where he stood.

“Miss Futaba. Please forgive the earliness of this intrusion.”

Sherlock stared at him. He was rigid as a board, chin raised, expression like stone. Formal. Not angry as he was last time she saw him. No back-up. No handcuffs. Nothing that suggested an arrest. She frowned. “Why are you here?”

His lips became a thin line, then he bowed deeply. “Evidence has confirmed everything you stated during the course of our investigation.” He was bent so low he was almost speaking to the floor. “Please accept the apologies of the Public Safety Department.”

Sherlock laughed without thinking. “O-ho?”

Behind Takahashi, Kento glared at the man. “You have come all this way to apologise for something we already knew?” 

Of course, Sherlock thought with a wry smile. Kento always lost his patience if he didn’t have his coffee. 

Takahashi straightened up from his bow. For a moment he said nothing, as if he was choosing his words carefully. “It was considered proper to inform you in person that no charges will be brought. You have committed no offence and caused no harm in the course of your investigation.”

The words made no sense. Sherlock pushed her thumb against her right palm. “Moriya.”

“The autopsy took some time, but they have confirmed that the virus had reached Moriya’s nervous system. The gunshot was not fatal. It only made–”

Not fatal.

Her world contracted to the pain in her palm and those two words.

 _Not fatal_.

She hadn’t killed anyone. No one had died at her hand. Moriya was dying. Yes, of course. Dying. Of course, of course, of course. The images they had showed her of the first victim. Bleeding from eyes, nose and mouth. Final symptoms. Terminal case. Moriya coughed. He bled. Dying. He was already dying.

A broad arm was around her. Kento. Only he would do that. She tried to focus, but the world was small and closed and her right hand was shaking and there was blood on it. Her own. Kento’s hand around it, holding it still.

“Breathe,” he said soft by her ear.

Breathe. Yes. Breathe.

In. Count. Hold. Count. Out. Count.

He did it too. Guiding when she lost herself. His hand was bigger and warmer around hers. 

She watched the sun move across the floor and leaned into her brother. In. Count. Hold. Count. Out. Count. Repeat.

When she turned her hand in his to grasp his fingers and took a deeper breath, he tightened his arm around her. Comfort, of a sort. Safe. Protected.

“I tried,” she said, her throat aching. “Moriya. I tried.”

“You were willing to do what you had to, to save the city.”

Her vision was blurring and she nodded. “To save the city.” Her cheeks felt hot and wet. “To save Wato.”

He squeezed her hand. “You slowed him down. You did save her. More than once.”

“I would have killed…” That was what felt like a twist of the knife. Doing the right thing. Doing the correct thing. Life for life. She had tried. She had pulled the trigger. She had seen him fall. “I tried to kill.”

“No,” he corrected gently, “You tried to save.”

His hand was covered in her blood too as she hugged his arm to her chest. “To save.” She nodded, her eyes hot and wet. “Yes. To save.”


End file.
